“All right, sugar it is. Just a minute.”
And he would return to the customer with a bag of salt.
He would have had to close up his shop long ago, but Freidele was the exact opposite of her husband. She was short, roly-poly, red-cheeked, with an endearing smile. She listened to everyone’s orders, rushed to give the customer what he wanted, and had a nice word for everyone. She was able to attend to several tasks at once: count money, chat, weigh merchandise. If someone bought on credit, she didn’t write the sum in an account book. She remembered everything. Freidele would often tell her husband that he wasn’t needed in the store and that he was no help at all. Furthermore, Yechiel would drive customers away. He would wander about the store, move here and there, biting the tip of his beard as if deeply pondering the philosophy of commerce. Although he did nothing, his gaberdine was dusted with flour and stained with oil. Freidele would call him over to the counter. “What are you thinking about? Why the cat has whiskers?”
“Leave me alone,” Yechiel would grumble in reply.
Suddenly Yechiel fell ill. His situation soon became critical and the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with him. Some people assumed that the angry and sad thoughts that had passed through Yechiel’s head all these years had fused into a poisonous knot. On Monday he lay down in his bed, and by Thursday he was a transformed man, yellow as wax, gaunt like after a long fast. His lips were white and his huge eyes terror-stricken. Freidele spared no money. She organized a concilium of doctors and professors, but each offered a different diagnosis. It was clear that Yechiel’s time had come. Freidele’s crying mingled laughter and tears. She paced back and forth in the rooms wringing her hands.
“He’s a goner,” she cried out. “A goner!”
Before he died, Yechiel called Freidele to the bed and groaned hoarsely, “Give me your hand!”
Freidele gave him her hand. Hers was warm; his was tepid and damp.
“Promise me that you won’t marry anyone else,” he moaned. Freidele’s red cheeks turned white. “Well, as you wish,” she promised.
Soon thereafter Yechiel sank into a coma from which he never recovered. How strange it was that this grumbler, whom everyone in the street hated, had a big funeral. At the cemetery Freidele wept her mingled laughter and tears and then returned home to sit shiva. I forgot to mention they had no children.
At the conclusion of the shiva, Freidele reopened the store. Now that Yechiel no longer wandered about in it, there were even more customers than ever before. The store was always full. Freidele served with incredible speed and reckoned all the charges in her head. Business was so good she had to hire an assistant, and later another girl as well. She had to enlarge her store, because it was always crowded and there was no room to move. Matchmakers inundated her shop, offering marriage partners, but Freidele gave them all the same reply.
“I can’t marry. I gave him my promise.”
Learned Jews explained to Freidele that a promise like hers need not be kept. Such was the decision rendered by a series of rabbis in similar circumstances. But Freidele replied that she had no intention of breaking her oath.
“I’ve lived my life,” she said. “I’m done with playing and dancing.”
From her sly smile it was hard to tell whether she was sad or indifferent. She was the sort of woman who was called impassive and phlegmatic—nothing bothered her.
Freidele was a conundrum. She talked little about herself. No one knew what was going on inside her. Was she sad? Happy? At times, it seemed Freidele was so immersed in business there remained no time or energy for any other thoughts. She lived out her life entirely among sacks of flour, sugar, and dried beans.
One day the door to our apartment opened and Freidele entered. She wanted to speak to Father. A while later he called in Mother. This is what had happened:
Freidele had become acquainted with a salami merchant, a widower her age, and she wanted to consult Father on a religious matter: Would she be allowed to break her promise? If yes, she would like Father to officiate at a quiet wedding. Freidele did not want to delay matters. She paced about in Father’s study, occasionally glancing out the window at her store, which happened to be exactly opposite us. It was hard to imagine that this businesswoman could love anyone. The entire match was probably a calculated move. According to Freidele, a husband and wife couldn’t manage two stores. The widower had a big shop. Freidele was apparently ready to put on a white apron and cut salami, chicken breast, liver, and cold cuts with a long knife.
Father consulted one book after another. Then he asked Freidele if she had given her oath of her own free will or out of fear lest she upset her ill husband and thereby aggravate his condition. From the way Father formulated the question he practically put the answer into her mouth.
“What could I have done?” Freidele said. “He was on his deathbed.”
“That means you did it for his sake.”
“Of course!”
Father hesitated a long while. It wasn’t easy to take responsibility for such a matter. Nevertheless, he ruled that the widow was permitted to marry. I thought that Freidele would be overjoyed, but she wasn’t the sort of woman who displayed her feelings. She immediately began to discuss practical matters. She wanted to know the cost of the wedding ceremony and declared that there be no guests. Father suggested that they have a minyan. Plain folk from the street could be brought in, or even some young boys. Freidele evidently intended to sell her store or give it to someone else. She wanted to keep everything secret. Was it perhaps because she was ashamed before people?
Mother expected Freidele to pour out her heart to her, as did all the other women, and even some men as well. But Freidele said, “I left the store unattended. I must run back right away.”
As soon as she left, Father resumed studying. Mother walked about absorbed in thought.
“Freidele is a strong person,” she said.
And although I was a little boy, I understood what she meant. It was unusual for a woman to have such a resolute character.
A few days passed. At our house everything was set for the wedding: the bottle of wine, the blank marriage contract ready to be filled out, and the canopy with the four wooden poles which stood in its usual place next to the stove. What else was needed? No one on the street knew what was about to take place.
Early one morning someone knocked on our door. There stood Freidele. I scarcely recognized her. Her formerly red-cheeked, round face was now long and pale. Her eyes looked confused and frightened. She wore a shawl over her head like a poor Jewish woman. I think her shoelaces were untied. Even her voice had changed.
“Is your father up yet?” she asked me.
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Freidele went into the rabbinic courtroom. I wanted to follow her, but she said sternly, “I have a private matter to discuss with your father.”
I remained in the kitchen, but I was transformed into one huge ear. Freidele spoke softly in the other room and Father answered her. Then Freidele spoke again and I heard soft sobbing. Shivers ran down my spine. Not only had I never heard Freidele crying, I couldn’t even imagine her shedding tears. Even at Yechiel’s funeral no one had heard Freidele weep. In the bedroom Mother, too, had evidently overheard Freidele’s sobs. She put on her robe and slippers and came into the courtroom. For a long time one could hear whispers, sobs, interrupted exchanges, and suppressed sighs coming from the room.
No matter how hard I tried to hear what was happening, I could make out nothing. It dawned on me that perhaps Freidele’s fiance had died. But why would they have to whisper so much about that? I tried to open the door, but Mother immediately yelled, “Shut the door!”
Only later did I learn what had happened. At night, after Freidele had fallen asleep, Yechiel had come to her, dressed in his shroud. He shouted fiercely at her and tried to strangle her. In the courtroom Freidele had shown Mother a blue mark on her th
roat. Her arms and breasts were full of black-and-blue marks, which were called “dead man’s pinches.” It was obvious that there, in the other world, Yechiel didn’t want his wife to marry. He shouted into her ears, beat her, warned her that she would marry under a black wedding canopy and die a premature death.
Father no longer wanted to take the responsibility upon himself. He told Freidele to go see a rebbe. Such matters were not within a rabbi’s purview but could be dealt with better by a Hasidic rebbe.
To this day I don’t know if Freidele went to consult a rebbe or what he may have told her. But nothing came of the match with the salami dealer. Freidele remained a widow for as long as we lived on our street. At home I was told not to say a word, God forbid, and I learned early on to keep a secret.
For a couple of years Freidele was like her old self. Her cheeks glowed. Her smile was both friendly and contrived. She measured, weighed, talked with her customers, bossed around the girls in her employ. No one could have guessed that she had undergone an awful, terror-laden experience. Then suddenly she began to age. As if overnight the skin on her face became wrinkled and crow’s-feet developed around her eyes. She stopped smiling like a woman and now had the smile of a grandmother. Her voice softened. Her head began shaking as if always nodding yes.
The story of Freidele’s dream terrified me. I often thought of Yechiel and his appearing to Freidele clad in his shroud, which frightened me, too. What would I do if he came to me in a dream? And how would it have harmed Yechiel in the next world if Freidele had married the salami dealer?
People on the street did not know what had happened, but they spoke of her often. What had she gained by doing such good business and amassing so much money? What good did her fortune do her? She opened her store very early and closed it later than all the other shopkeepers. On Sabbaths, Freidele ate on the balcony of her apartment and watched the world pass by below.
When I returned to Warsaw after a trip to see my grandfather, I no longer saw Freidele in her store. She was probably where Yechiel was. But did she become his footstool in heaven, as Jewish folklore declares? It’s no good being the footstool for such an irascible person. But on the other hand, from a psychological point of view, Freidele’s dream was a reflection of her own desires. Subconsciously—at least that would be the Freudian interpretation—she probably had loved her husband very much.
REB ZANVELE
On a bench near the stove in the Hasidic shtibl sat several Hasidim. Around them stood some young men and boys, listening to Reb Zanvele the toomtoom.6 Reb Zanvele was tall, broad, with the big head of a scholar, a high forehead, deep wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and sidecurls down to his shoulders.
But, alas, he did not have a beard. His face was as smooth as a woman’s—even worse than a woman’s. It did not have even a trace of hair. His beardless face bore testimony that Reb Zanvele had earned his nickname. His voice was a little deeper than a woman’s, but not as deep as a man’s. He said, “He who was not present at the Alexander Rebbe’s court on the second night of the holiday has no idea what pleasures this world can offer. And of the world to come, it goes without saying! Oh my, what do today’s Hasidim know about Hasidism? He who has not known the rebbe cannot know what a wise man is! His wisdom cast a glow over the world. He could do everything at once: study Talmud with commentaries, chat with young people, and hear what a boy was saying at the far end of the study hall. He came up with witty sayings that made you explode with laughter, but when you recalled them later, you realized that they were also profound and deep, deep as the ocean.”
The Hasidic rebbe whom Reb Zanvele praised was in a way similar to Reb Zanvele. That rebbe was a eunuch, which is also a kind of toomtoom. In praising the rebbe, Reb Zanvele was also subtly lauding himself. The Hasidim understood this and exchanged glances as they listened. Yes, one can be either a eunuch or a toomtoom and also have a great soul. One thing has nothing to do with the other. Even the prophet Isaiah consoled the eunuchs who kept the Sabbath and did good deeds. Nevertheless, it was still a humiliation to walk about with a naked face among an entire congregation of bearded Jews. Indeed, although Reb Zanvele was not married, he wore a tallis when he prayed. He had no source of income; the Hasidim supported him. Reb Zanvele either studied or prayed or paced back and forth in the shtibl deep in thought. He smoked a long pipe, and from a little ivory box he sniffed snuff into which he had mixed a couple of drops of brandy in order to make it stronger. Occasionally he would approach a young boy, pinch his cheek, and ask, “So what’s going to be, huh?”
He lived in a little rented room somewhere. On Sabbaths he was invited for meals, but going to a stranger’s house was painful for Reb Zanvele. Women and girls were somehow afraid of him, and terribly embarrassed, too. Since he wasn’t a man, then in a way he belonged to their gender.
Once, a girl began laughing at the Sabbath table and couldn’t stop. Reb Zanvele knew quite well she was laughing at him. But what can one do? If it was ordained in heaven to be a toomtoom, and a pauper to boot, one must bear the yoke. While the girl was laughing, Reb Zanvele perused a Pentateuch which happened to be on the table. As he read the commentaries, he took hold of his beardless chin and began tugging at it as though a beard were growing there.
“What a delight! Sweet as sugar!” he said.
On another summer afternoon, while Father sat in his courtroom writing his commentary and Mother read a book in the kitchen, the door opened and in walked Reb Zanvele the toomtoom. Following him was a woman. She wore a wide-brimmed, satin-fringed bonnet decorated with little glass beads, a satin coat, a beaded dress, and pointy shoes that looked as though they had been made in the Middle Ages. On her beaked nose sat a pair of brass-rimmed glasses. One look told us she was a rebbetzin.
Reb Zanvele hurried in to see Father, for it wasn’t his habit to speak to women. After Mother welcomed the woman, she remained for a while in the kitchen.
“Rebbetzin, I am the Chentchinner Rebbetzin. My late husband was the Chentchinner Rebbe.”
“Oh! Please sit down.”
“I can stand. Rebbetzin, do you perform weddings here?”
“Yes, why not? Small weddings with just a wedding canopy.”
“What else do I need? A tumultuous wedding? I would like to get married to Reb Zanvele.”
Mother stood there tongue-tied. She seemed embarrassed. Seeing me, she called out, “Why are you hanging around in the kitchen? Go into the other room!”
I was dying to hear the rebbetzin explain why she was marrying the toomtoom. But I also wanted to hear what the toomtoom himself would say about this. I went into the bigger room and heard Reb Zanvele speaking.
“Her husband was a great scholar. One of the very great ones. He left sixty books.”
“Sixty? Published?”
“Well, here’s the story: They’re all in manuscript. His handwriting was very hard to decipher. She wants me to get his books published.”
“Where are you going to get the money?”
“She wants me to sell advance subscriptions.”
“That’s going to be very hard.”
“Jews are generous. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, but I’m getting older and I can’t wander about anymore. Eating at strangers’ tables is painful for me. This way I’ll have another human being in the house.”
“It’s not unreasonable.”
“So since she’s willing, what can I lose?” Reb Zanvele asked.
“You’re absolutely right.”
“I would like you to officiate at the ceremony,” said Reb Zanvele.
I looked at Father. I wanted to see in his eyes a trace of amazement, some of the bewilderment I had detected on Mother’s face. But Father wasn’t surprised at all.
“Well, fine …”
“Uh, do we need some refreshments?” Reb Zanvele asked.
“Well, you will need wine for the blessings. But the custom is to offer the minyan some cake and brandy.”
“Fine, w
e’ll have it. I see you’re studying the Tractate Bekhoros,” Reb Zanvele said, changing his tone.
“I’m writing a commentary on Rabbi Yom-tov Algazi’s7 book, The Laws of Yom-tov,” Father declared.
“Oh, really? Well, everything is useful. In a couple of hundred years somebody will write a commentary on your commentary.”
I saw at once that the conversation was not heading in the direction I wanted it to go and I quietly returned to the kitchen, where I could hear the woman.
“Yes, we spent fifty years together, but one cannot remain alone. I come home on Sabbath from the synagogue and I have to go to a neighbor’s house to hear the Kiddush. My neighbor is a tailor, but he pronounces Hebrew like a boor. Reb Zanvele, alas, is not healthy, but he is a learned man. What more do I need at my age? I am not the matriarch Sarah who gave birth when she was ninety.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“He promises me that he’ll get my husband’s manuscripts published.”
“Well, perhaps …”
“My late husband, may a bright Paradise be his, wasn’t well either. Unfortunately, he was sickly all his life. I was as healthy as a giant and I’ve remained that way. May no evil eye harm me, I’m already sixty-eight years old and I still have all my teeth. But don’t judge me by the way I look now. I once was a beauty …”
“One can see it on you.”
“I used to dazzle the entire street. They wanted to match me up with a merchant’s son, a strapping young fellow, but my good mama—may she intercede on my behalf—wanted to have a son-in-law with a rabbinic ordination. Nowadays they ask the girl what she wants. In my day children weren’t asked their opinion. Right after the wedding he started ailing and remained ill for the rest of his life. He lay in bed and studied. For days on end. All night, too. So since I was deprived throughout all my young years, what do I need now? I’m afraid of just one thing: I hope he doesn’t hold it against me.”
“You mean your husband?”
“Yes. After all, a hundred years from now I’ll be in Paradise with him.”
More Stories From My Father's Court Page 11
